The first sensation you become aware of is that you are warm. Never in your life have you felt so deliciously contented and comfortable, as if soaked in warm heat from a fire. The warmth is balmy, embracing your every limb, enveloping all your curves. It radiates from inside, pools in your chest, curls in a fuzzy ball in your stomach. Your back is snug under covers, and your cheek is resting on a very pleasant pillow, just right, neither silky and slippery, nor harsh and scratchy. All your senses are sated and placid. Your nose, your fingers and toes are hiding under the covers, and you bury your nose deeper. It bumps into hot skin. You open your eyes and jerkily sit up.
There is a Dwarf in your bed, a gorgeous, sleeping, naked Dwarf. Black strands splayed on the pillow, lush thick lashes, prominent straight nose, luscious beard and of course, the lips… His sensually curved, soft lips, that performed the most enticing acts all over your body last night… Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain is in your bed, in a deep postcoital slumber.
Right, last night you bedded Thorin Oakenshield. Right… No, wait, that is not quite accurate of a description of the formidable transgression that you committed. No, the most precise way to put it would be that last night you deflowered Thorin Oakenshield. As in Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the Heir of Durin, King Under the Mountain Thorin Oakenshield.
You carefully pull a corner of the covers from under his heavy arm, Maiar, look at those muscles, and shield you naked breasts. Shouldn't you be panicking right now and try to scamper, shamefully picking the items of your clothing from the floor? You screw your eyes and see your drawers on the floor. The picture of the Dwarven King pulling them off you with his teeth pops in your head. Right, concentrate!
Sneaking away seems wrong for two reasons. Firstly, it is your room and where would you go? Hide in his room until he decides to vacate your bed? Secondly, you do not really feel that embarrassed. May be a little for some of the most graphic things you were screaming in the throes of passion last night, but in general you feel… jubilant. You had him for the whole night, he was yours, all laughing eyes and greedy palms, hot and glorious.
And thirdly, alright, you forgot to count this one but it is important, you want to stay and have a good look. He is finally immobile, and you will not be caught ogling. And how worthy of extensive ogling this dazzling Dwarf is! You tilt your head and peek at his ears. Maiar know why you started with them, but they are adorable! Big and very, very sensitive! The yelp you received from him after biting them was priceless. You recollect swirling your tongue caressing the burning lobe and the feral growls rumbling in his chest in response. You also recollect grabbing them while he was sucking on your neck and pushing his head down towards your breasts. What? They wanted attention too. And quick!
You look at the beard and your breasts, stomach and inner thighs grumble. It is called stubble burn, get over yourselves! Your skin is probably angry red from his ministrations, some of your parts have indeed received slightly more attention than others. But was it not worth it? It was, all your parts agree. Your eyes follow the neckline of the neckline of the beard and you lick your lips.
This strong neck, this exquisite throat, with masculine sinews and veins, moving and bulging while supporting his weight on his arms he was mercilessly pumping into you. Right, moving on! You cautiously stretch your arm and touch the strands of ebony and silver on your pillow. One of the slick braids with a heavy bead at its end is heavenly soft and smooth under the tips of your fingers. These two thick black plaits on the sides of his face have previously deprived you of many hours of sleep, your insatiable carnal fever for him yielding increasingly lecherous and physically challenging scenarios involving among many other indecent things catching the beads with your mouth while you are arching and moaning underneath him. Firstly, it is probably impossible to moan and bite at the same time. Secondly, this fantasy can be written off as fulfilled. The clank of the bead on your teeth was as sensual as you always imagined.
You edge a bit closer and contemplate whether he will wake up if you put your hand on his chest. Probably, being an excellent scout and such. The chest proved to be your favourite part last night, the hot hard muscles and the tantalizing coarseness of the thick hair covering his torso. You crave to train your fingers through it again but fear to wake him up. On the other hand, he is probably exhausted, all the hard work he did last night, poor darling. Hard, hard work… You peek but his lower half is concealed with rumpled sheets and covers. And yet again, you did have a good look yesterday. Maiar help you, you are ruined for any other.
You cease your wanton ogling and shift your eye back to his face. It is relaxed and content, lips slightly open, his brow smooth. You are ruined and it not the size and girth, although Maiar, why noone ever told you? Why those who know are not telling everybody about it? People should be shouting about it on every corner, proclaiming the glorious cynosure that is a Dwarven phallus and sing praise to Mahal, the Maker, the Father of Dwarves, the Smith of the Powers!
According to the Dwarves, Mahal has given them the prowess and the endurance to resist fire and the evil that was Morgoth. Apparently, endless fervor between the sheets and seemingly insatiable vigour is just a pleasant corollary. Every muscle in your body aches deliciously, your inner walls sore beyond description, you are pretty sure you have lost your voice from all the crying out in ecstasy. Let us be honest, your sixth climax might have been accidental. But again, the seventh was not.
You sign and concede, you are ruined. Ruined by his passion, his intensity, his desire to please, to give and to share the pleasure, his excitement and his tenderness. For his first night he proved to be curious, creative and inspired, sometimes impatient, sometime mischievous, showing timely gentleness or ferocity, and Maiar, how will you survive if that is the only time?
You feel suddenly sad, your bliss and ravishment withering and you are overcome with an urge to cover your nakedness. You carefully move to the edge of the bed, distractedly noting the soreness of your insides, and you pick up your undergarments. You slip into the drawers and inspect the undertunic. You were right last night when you thought you heard the sound of fabric tearing. It is ruined. The delicate gauzy garment is now just a scraping, and you feel like crying. Then you give yourself a mental slap. Are you really going to cry over comparing yourself to an item of clothing?
You throw it aside and pick up your dress. The lacing is open and you cannot seem to find the string that was looped through the front. You search the room with your eyes and then you are staring in the cerulean irises of the King of the Mountain. He is frowning, in a stark contrast to the content relaxed expression in his sleep. "What are you doing?" Well, good morning to your too, Thorin. Who would guess that the King Under the Mountain is a morning grouch?
"I am evaluating the damage," you try to enlighten the mood and dangle the former undertunic on your finger. He smirks from a pleasant memory and then stretches his arm towards you, "Come back to bed." His voice is positively unlawful, all velvet and molasses, low and sensual but you are a healer and know that the addiction to stimulating potions should be nipped in the bud. You pull the covers higher and clear your throat.
"My Lord, I believe it would be unwise. I have only paid for the room till morning." "Then we should move to mine," his hand is still in the air and you see two ways out of this situation. First, you cowardly backtrack, covering your round parts, which is ridiculous since he has seen, kissed, licked and sucked all of them thoroughly last night, get dressed, thank him for a wonderful night and then jump into River Running to your pathetic demise. Door number two, you put your hand in his calloused palm and let him pull you into the whirlpool that your emotional life will turn into if you fall for the King Under the Mountain. Whom are you kidding, you have fallen long time ago! Honesty is the best policy, and you honestly tell yourself the diagnosis: you are hopelessly in love with Thorin Oakenshield.
You lick your lips and go for door number three. You pounce at him, straddle him and kiss him, biting his delicious lower lip and grabbing his magnificent ears. He growls and topples you over back into the rumpled sheets. Damn with it all, he is good!